Nonni’s house always gave me a cozy, safe feeling I thought was missing in my own. Mom loved the color white, so at home everything was neutral and looked like fresh snow—pristine and clean and untouched. Even though my room had a pretty pink chandelier, fancy furniture, and a queen-size bed with black raspberry satin sheets, it felt like too much space. Nonni’s house was like being wrapped up in a tight hug. She preferred colors like brown, gold, and deep red, always citing white as showing the dirt too easily. There were thick carpets and lived-in furniture that cushioned my butt when I sat. The kitchen was always filled with amazing smells like tangy garlic, fresh tomatoes, sweet basil, and citrusy lemon. The oak table was round so everyone felt close. The best part was the clutter. It was clean—I could tell from the lemon furniture polish scent, and there were never any crumbs on the counters or dust—but there was interesting stuff. Endless pictures crammed into every inch of space on the tables, paintings of beautiful Italian landscapes on the walls, books and magazines with thick, glossy pages stacked up. Yards of colorful yarn with crochet needles and half-knit projects of afghans and pillows littered the living room. Knickknacks of shot glasses, heavy glass ashtrays, scented candles, mini statues of the Virgin Mary and St. Francis, and mementos from my mom’s childhood, from twisted pottery to macaroni art for Girl Scouts, filled the shelves.

I always loved picking through them and hearing my grandmother’s stories about each item. It was a nice reminder that once Mom was a child, too, and not always perfect.

I watched Nonni get up to retrieve more lemonade before I could get it myself—she was always able to anticipate every need of mine before me—and took in her wince of pain. She rubbed her stomach and plucked the pitcher of freshly squeezed juice, laying it on the table.

“Nonni, are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?”

She looked startled, then smiled and shook her head. “No, just a bit of indigestion. I made a pot of that escargot and bean soup I used to love, but beans don’t agree with me anymore.” She made a face. “Gives me gas.”

I laughed. “Can’t be as bad as sitting next to Curt in English class. He farts so bad the teacher needs to open the windows. Even in winter.”

She laughed, too, and poured me a cup. “How are your classes going? Are you ready for finals?”

I shoveled in a forkful of salad, making sure I snagged a green olive. The tangy oil and vinegar with just the right amount of salt and seasoning was my favorite. “I think so. Just not sure about the Regents in Italian. I suck at foreign languages.”